by Jen Malone
But he doesn’t have a parrot.
I do.
More specifically, I have Polly Want a Cracker, which is the stuffed beast molting feathers that goes along with the 100-percent-ruins-my-life-every-time-I-have-to-wear-it Dread Pirate Roberts costume my parents (who are supposed to love me) force me into when I give tours of the island for the Visitor’s Center.
And which I’m wearing today because Shuffleboard Dan is paying me to, and also because I’m a teeny-tiny bit scared of him and his . . . er, enthusiasm. For shuffleboard.
I adjust the molting parrot on the shoulder of my puffy-sleeved shirt and thwok black pleather from my thighs. I swear, this costume is sticky even in February, but mid-September in North Carolina is—blech—the worst if you happen to be wearing pleather pirate pants.
I wave at a family approaching the shuffleboard courts. It’s Founder’s Day, and Shuffleboard Dan hired me to entertain the kids of any adults who wanted to play in the sixth annual Sandpiper Beach Founder’s Day Shuffleboard Tournament Sponsored by Shuffleboard Dan and the American Shuffleboard Alliance. Try fitting that on a T-shirt. Also, I’m fairly certain there is no such thing as an American Shuffleboard Alliance, and Google agrees with me. I just know Shuffleboard Dan made it up so he could pretend other people share his obsession.
Anyway, obsessed he is, so employed I am. I’m not so sure the Dread Pirate costume was the best idea for this, though. The little girl I wave to looks fairly horrified. I’m pretty sure she’s making that face at Polly Want a Cracker, but it’s also possible that even a four-year-old has enough fashion sense to know the Dread Pirate costume should stay locked in a dark closet f-o-r-e-v-e-r.
I wave at her again, and she hides behind her mother’s leg.
Le sigh.
I’d rather be wedding planning, even though we’ve been spending kind of all our free time doing it. At least you can plan seating arrangements and brainstorm ideas for centerpieces in a tank top. I head back to my beach chair next to the shed/shanty/shack and perch on the edge of the seat. Any farther back and the pleather sticks. Sooooo not a pretty sight when I have to get up. I wish Sadie would hurry up and get here; she promised moral support.
Usually I looooooove Founder’s Day. The whole town comes out to celebrate Sandpiper Beach with a morning fishing competition, followed by a town-wide yard sale, followed by an afternoon sailboat race, followed by yet another fish fry (obligatory at every major and minor holiday around here), followed by a dance.
I got up early for the yard sale. Anything with the word “sale” in it—count me in! I mean, c’mon, it’s shopping . . . on the cheap (even if some people drag the same stuff back out year after year and try to foist it on the rest of us!). But I live next door to a bookstore, and you should just see what they put out. The best.
This year I decided all interesting people have collections and therefore I need one ASAP. Lauren has a really cool shell one, so I can’t steal that idea. Instead I bought three old-timey brooches from Mrs. Atwater (who called them costume jewelry) and a cloudy purple glass bottle that Mr. Vinton told me washed up on the shore with a message in it. He winked when he said it, though, so I don’t believe him. But a beach-bottle collection could be cool. Or brooches. I haven’t decided yet. A girl would do well to keep her options open (which is a saying of my mother’s I’m totes adopting as my own).
Zero chance I was going to the fishing competition because . . . eww, fishing. Even though squishing hooks through worm guts and out of fishy mouths is totally horrendous, I will be hitting up the fish fry, because fried fish = super yummy and because Daddy gives the Founder’s Day toast.
And of course I’ll be at the dance, too. With my friends. NOT with a boy.
I’ve sworn off boys.
Which, omigosh, is sooooooo completely freeing. I have, like, 137 percent more brain space now that I’m not thinking about cute-boy things, such as the way they flip their hair when they come out of the ocean with their surfboards tucked under their arms. Who even wants to spend time thinking about that?
My entire existence is worlds better now that I’ve realized I don’t need boys—or, more specifically, a boy—to write awesomesauce song lyrics about (songwriting is kind of my thing) because I can just write songs about different kinds of love. Like my mad love for my music, or for Sadie, Vi, and Lauren, or for shuffleboard.
Oh, no, wait. No one has mad love for shuffleboard. Except Shuffleboard Dan. And possibly Lance.
I spy him over by the sticks. (Sorry, Shuffleboard Dan. They might be called “tangs” officially, but that is sooo not catching on.) He’s picking each one up and carefully inspecting it. Lance is totally convinced that this is the year he will beat Shuffleboard Dan. I should mention that Lance was also positive he would take down Shuffleboard Dan last year and the year before that and probably the year before that, too. If I were a betting girl (which I so totally would be if Daddy would let me), my money would be on Shuffleboard Dan.
Vi’s money would be on Lance.
She glides up on her bike, all cool in her shorts and bathing-suit top, with her hair twisted into a soggy bun that lets me know she got out of the ocean for this.
“Arrrrr,” she says.
“Hardy-har. Talk Like a Pirate Day isn’t for another week.” (These are things you know when you live in Sandpiper Beach and most of your tourist money comes from all things pirate-y. We’re always looking for stuff to turn into holidays, and TLAPD is another one. Ahoy, matey.)
“Well, if the pleather pants fit . . . ,” Vi says, hiding a smile as she stares pointedly at my legs.
“If they fit, they would be even more uncomfortable. Baggy pleather is bad enough. But tight pleather?” I shudder. “Hey, did you see Lance?”
“Who? Oh, Lance is here?”
Vi is fooling exactly no one. We both know full well he is, and we also know full well it’s the reason she’s here. She turns to where Lance is weighing a puck in each hand and blushes six ways to Sunday when he catches her eye and gives a quick head nod.
Ah, young love. I’m so happy I don’t have to worry about any of that. So, so, soooo happy. Happiest, really.
“Excusez-moi, pirate girl. Eez ziss where I can pay for zee shuffleboard game?”
I tip my head back in my chair to see who in Sandpiper Beach would be talking with a French accent and am suddenly staring into the warmest pair of espresso-bean/Labrador-puppy/brown-as-melted-hot-chocolate eyes I’ve ever seen. Attached to a boy. A my-age boy. And when my head tip turns into something more like a crane, I topple backward in my beach chair and end up with my Dread Pirate boots waving in the air at Mr. Oh-My-Gosh-He’s-French.
“Are you . . . Can I help you?” he asks, as he crouches down and gently extracts Polly Want a Cracker’s claws from my shoulder.
“Mmmmm-ffffffff,” I answer. What? Like anyone in my position would manage anything better. He’s French and he’s cute. There should be a law against that. You should be allowed to be one or the other. Not both. Sooooo not both.
Vi giggles and tugs me up. “Sorry about Becca. She must have hit her head when she fell.” She elbows me, and I regain the ability to form a sentence.
“Arrrr.”
Okay, well, maybe not a sentence, but at least a word. Sort of.
“I thought Talk Like a Pirate Day wasn’t until next week, Becs.” Vi’s still grinning like she thinks this is the funniest situation in the world. Like I am not standing in front of a French hottie while wearing a seventeen-sizes-too-big Dread Pirate costume and mumbling incoherent phrases. Words. Whatever.
I’ll be killing her later.
“I’m Philippe,” the cute boy says. Of course he is. Of course he has a perfect French name to match his perfect French accent. What is it with me and accents? They’re like my kryptonite. First there was Ryan this summer, who was visiting from Ireland. Even now, when we Skype to work on songs together, his accent still does this weird flip-floppy thing to my stomach, although we are a thousan
d percent just good friends.
Philippe has his hands in his pockets, and he’s rocking back and forth a tiny bit on the balls of his feet, with this confident little smile in the corners of his mouth. Daddy says boys with corner smiles are trouble. Well, Daddy says all boys are trouble. He doesn’t really make distinctions. But still.
You know what? It’s a totally good thing I’ve sworn off boys, then. Yup, totally, totally good thing. Plus, tourist boys = not worth my time. They just pack up and leave at the end of the summer. Although the end of the summer happened weeks ago, so France must have extra-weird vacation schedules. But whatever.
Once I remember the tourists-aren’t-worth-it thing, I can totes be myself again. Phew!
“Hi, Philippe. I’m Becca. This is Vi. Are you entering the tournament?”
“Yes, I am. I thought eet would be a good way to meet zee ozzer kids in my new hometown.”
New hometown? New hometown??
Um . . . say what now?
Vi
PIZZA ROLLS
The best thing about this recipe is that you don’t have to measure anything!
Ingredients:
1 roll of crescent dough
olive oil (to brush on the dough)
pizza sauce
basil
oregano
mozzarella cheese (shredded)
your favorite pizza toppings: pepperoni, mushrooms, green pepper pieces, anything!
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Unroll the crescent dough and separate it into rectangles (two crescents per rectangle). Brush each rectangle with a little olive oil; then sprinkle them with just a little basil and oregano. Spoon a very thin layer of pizza sauce on each rectangle (not too much, or it will leak out as the rolls bake!). Then layer on the cheese and each of your favorite ingredients. Remember not to put too much on the rectangle, or you won’t be able to roll it up. Roll each rectangle into a tight roll. Place rolls on a baking sheet and refrigerate for 25 minutes. Then cut each roll in half (make sure halves don’t touch each other), and place in the oven for 10–20 minutes, or until dough turns golden brown.
**This is the BEST party snack or studying snack.
**If you use a meat like sausage, make sure to cook it all the way through before adding it to the pizza rolls, or it could make you sick. And something this yummy should never, ever make anyone sick!
I never in a million years thought that shuffleboard could be as intense as soccer or beach volleyball, but as Lance gets ready to push the weight in the last frame against Shuffleboard Dan, I’ve got my fists clenched, and my teeth are digging into my lower lip.
Dad calls shuffleboard an old-people-on-a-cruise-ship game, but, secretly, I think it was because he always had to work and never got to come to the Founder’s Day tournament before. This year he was totally into it, and even won his first game. The new guy (apparently), Philippe, took him out in the second round, but Dad stuck around and is totally cheering for Lance next to Lance’s dad. As much as I wish Dad weren’t the school janitor, I can admit it’s nice that he’s not at work all the time anymore.
“Are they done yet?” Becca tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “I am abso-posi-lutely dying of heat exhaustion in this thing.”
“You just want to change into something cuter for Philllliiiiipppppppe,” Sadie drawls.
Becca huffs. “I do not. He’s cute, but so what? I’m completely, totally, one hundred thirty-seven percent done with boys.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Sadie says.
“Shhh, y’all.” I wave my hand without looking at them. If Lance actually wins this, it’ll be the first time anyone has ever beat Shuffleboard Dan. Who knows how much money is in that pot? Dan never takes out his winnings, just keeps adding to it every year. There’s probably enough to buy twenty surfboards.
Lance wipes his face with his shirt. It’s completely silent at the game board. Shuffleboard Dan is a total stickler for the rules, which means the players can’t talk to each other while the game is on. Lance exhales, and then pushes the weight. It slides across the board.
It hits the 10 mark at the very tip-top of the triangle. As Meemaw says, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then. Although Lance isn’t anything even close to squirrel-like, maybe he’s found his luck today.
“Yes!” I shout, and punch the air.
But the weight doesn’t stop. It slides just a bit farther—off the board. And Lance loses. So much for the blind squirrel.
“You okay, Vi? I didn’t realize you were so into shuffleboard.” Becca pokes me with Polly Want a Cracker, who leaves feathers all over my shoulder.
I’m not, really. Shuffleboard is So Not Vi. Although, since a lot of things that were So Not Vi—like clothes and sparkly purple phones—became Sometimes Vi this summer, then maybe shuffleboard can too.
And now Lance is looking this way. Maybe if I seem completely busy, he’ll go talk to someone else. I used to like to talk to him—about volleyball strategy or soccer tryouts. We’re even on the same soccer team this year, since this town is so tiny that there aren’t enough players to support separate boys’ and girls’ teams. But ever since I started curling my hair sometimes and wearing some of Becca’s pink-tinted lip gloss, he’s been weird. Like he can’t figure out what to say to me. The first day of school, I think he tried to ask me to tonight’s Founder’s Day dance.
But he hasn’t tried to ask me since then. I know, because we’ve had soccer practice and classes together. So I was either completely wrong about him wanting to ask me, or he hasn’t worked up the nerve to try again. Either way, I’ve tried hard not to be alone with him, just in case. Not because I’m being mean. But because it’s all just so . . . weird.
I grab Becca’s and Sadie’s arms with way too much enthusiasm. Sadie winces.
“So where’s Lauren? Is she too cool for shuffleboard now?” I try to propel my friends toward the street to get away from Lance, just in case he tries to talk to me again, but Becca wiggles her arm out of my grasp.
“Ow, Vi. I kinda need my arm attached, you know?” Becca shakes out her pirate-coated limb. “Lo was here for exactly fifteen minutes. She said she only had four hours of ‘fun’ time scheduled for today, and wanted to save the rest of it for the dance tonight.” Becca rolls her eyes at this, and I kind of agree with her. Only Lauren could plot out exactly how much time she’s allowed to have fun. “Anyway, her alarm went off and she sprinted away to take over fairy-lights-and-streamers duty at the pavilion. The Chamber of Commerce people didn’t go for the idea of her selling tickets and instead put her on the decorations committee, with moi. Speaking of which, I need to ditch the Dread Pirate ASAP so I can make sure she’s not TPing the pavilion with streamers and—”
Becca’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder, and her mouth twitches into this I-know-something-you-don’t-know look. And now Sadie is rubbing her arm and grinning like a total loon.
Oh, no.
“Hey, Vi,” Lance says.
“Um, hi.” I turn around and stuff my hands into the itty-bitty pockets in my shorts. Except my phone is in one of them and my keys are in the other, so it’s more like I’ve stuffed my fingertips into my pockets.
“Thanks for cheering for me,” Lance says.
Becca giggles, and Sadie shushes her. And I just want to find a way out of here. “Sure. So, look, I gotta—”
“Wait,” he says. “I need to ask you something.” He draws up this huge breath like he’s about to dive into the deep end of the pool.
Oh, no. Oh, no no no no. It’s happening. I glance at Sadie for help. She grins at me before she grabs Becca’s arm and tugs her away, leaving me completely and totally alone with Lance.
I glance at him, but he looks like he’s in pain or something. So I stare at my flip-flops and pink-painted toenails.
“So . . . um . . .” He pauses, and I feel so warm that it’s like someone just turned on the heat outside.
“Youwannagotothedancewithme?” He says it so fast I can
barely understand him.
I look up, pretty sure my face is rivaling the red in Shuffleboard Dan’s Hawaiian shirt. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Which is So Not Vi.
Sadie and Becca are standing off to the side, watching the whole thing. Polly bobs on Becca’s shoulder as Becca bounces on her toes.
“Vi?” Lance asks.
I open my mouth again. No words.
So I do the next best thing. I turn around and sprint toward my bike. Then I take off down Pelican Street.
I hope he knows that means yes.
• • •
I should’ve said no. I should’ve said that I needed to practice drills for soccer, or figured out where to buy a guest book of least one hundred light pink pages with a cover embedded in Swarovski crystals for Miss Worthington’s wedding (her actual request), or make baked spaghetti for five hundred people at the post–Founder’s Day brunch at the Church of the Victorious and Forgiving Holy Redeemer tomorrow, or plot revenge against Linney for how awful she’s been about my dad the first two weeks of school, or repaint my toenails. Or something. Anything. Because nothing could possibly be more awkward than standing here in a shiny silver-and-pink dress (lent from Becca) and shiny silver shoes (from Sadie) with my hair in a perfectly messy-chic ponytail (all me, but with comments from Becca), not talking to Lance, who is standing right next to me.
When I got home after the disaster at Shuffleboard Dan’s this morning, I started to think that maybe Lance didn’t know that I really wanted to go to the dance with him. So I texted Becca, who told me I needed to tell him right away or the world might end (meaning, he wouldn’t know and would probably be mad at me forever—Becca kind of likes to exaggerate where boys are concerned). I skipped the fish fry and went for a quick run instead. Then I channeled my inner Becca, gathered up all the courage I had, and sent Lance a text before I could chicken out.
Sry I left so fast. Thought I left the oven on @ home. It was a lie, but it was going to help me save face, and maybe make him feel less like I ditched him. I pressed send, and before he could write back, I added, Yes 2 the dance.
